Chasing down Home
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: A version of how the reunion could go!


I was bored on the train!

Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognise.

* * *

Run!

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Moran had been in the flat opposite, he was foolish not to have seen it. It was so…pedestrian a plan that he'd overlooked it, which meant either Moran was magnificently sly or indescribably idiotic.

It would have to be an upper floor flat, good view of Baker Street's front door which narrowed it down to a number of windows. Moran would need a quick getaway which meant he'd be a moron to use the top floor flats. So he could calculate how long it would have taken Moran to get across from the meeting to the flat (Sherlock knew every permutation of that calculation) then add the additional 1.35 minutes to get up stairs, allowing an extra 20 seconds for human error in case Moran dropped his keys or bumped his equipment against a wall.

Then to assemble to sniper rifle, open the window, aim….

It would be close. Far too close for comfort. All these years hiding, tracking, killing would be for nothing if Moran succeeded.

Barrelling around the corner with thirty seconds to spare, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John Watson for the first time in almost three years.

Do not deduce. Run.

Thankfully John was slightly turned to the side as he frowned down at a text he'd received, which meant he was utterly unprepared for Sherlock crashing into him, cupping a hand round his head and shoving him down, following his friend's path as the gun shot went off.

Missed.

Yes!

Moran would be a bloody idiot to try-

Ahh.

Sherlock grabbed John by the elbow as another gun shot went off, forcing him to his feet and shoving him forward in the direction of the crowds that were ducking too. There was a certain safety in numbers-

_Alone protects me_

_No, friends protect you._

He kept his hand on John's head, keeping him down and could feel John's occasionally fight against it; his soldier instinct telling him to get his bearings, to find the enemy and react accordingly.

There was another shot and Sherlock yanked again at John; the bullet ripping through John's jacket and scrapping the skin beneath as the angle thankfully changed.

Spotting a chance, Sherlock changed his grip on John again and pulled him up, darting to the alley way, through it and out of Moran's reach.

Then turned back the way they'd just come, hesitant. It was imperative that he track Moran, find him before he attempted it again. But Moran wasn't the only threat to John's life.

Frustrated, Sherlock started to pace, needing to be doing something and trapped by his own doubts.

Behind him John sucked in a startled breath and there was the dull sound of a body thudding back against the wall.

"Jesus Christ," John whispered behind him.

"Not quite John, though I do see the parallels." Sherlock glared at the entrance and then perked up as the police sirens approached. "Do you still talk to Lestrade?"

"You…You're alive?" John breathed.

Snarling in irritation, Sherlock whirled around, plucked John by his unwounded arm and yanked him back out of the alleyway, keeping an eye on the window above where Moran had shot from.

A quick glance at the police cars showed unfamiliar officers and one…

Damn.

Quickly, Sherlock spun them both around and headed towards the alley again. John followed, ridiculously obedient, even for him.

"I need to think," he muttered under his breath, herding John along.

"Ok," John said sounding as if he was barely aware of what he was saying.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly and shook away the strange bottomless feeling in his stomach.

* * *

It took less time than he had suspected it would. John, once he had snapped out of the shock had been useful, though rather cold towards Sherlock. And Mycroft. And Molly. He'd even given Lestrade a wary, suspicious glance, as if readying himself for the revelation that everyone had been involved in Sherlock's "death" but him.

And, as Moran was led away, Sherlock felt an uncharacteristic nervous flutter weave through him. Now that they were no longer chasing down an assassin, now that John was free of danger and had no need of Sherlock, would he stay?

Unlikely. Especially considering the depth of betrayal John clearly felt.

It wasn't meant to happen like this. John was meant to be amazed, be grateful, be impressed. It would take five minutes to get over the awkwardness and then everything was meant to go back to the way it had been.

They should be arguing over the milk by now.

It had been childish, an overly idealised and simplified notion but it had been a necessary dream to keep him going for the past few years.

As the police scrabbled to find evidence, Lestrade tried to soothe Anderson and Mycroft had a quiet word with Molly about something, John walked over to Sherlock.

Readying himself, Sherlock pushed himself off the police car bonnet he'd been resting on and raised a polite enquiring eyebrow at John.

"I understand you feel betrayed." Sherlock started.

Whatever John had been about to say was halted as he stopped opposite Sherlock and glared.

"It was a necessary deception. Do not feel as if you should have seen through it, it was designed to fool you in particular."

A muscle in John's jaw started to tick.

This was not helping. "I will understand if you wish to vacate Baker Street now, though do at least wait for Mycroft to announce Moriarty's web of influence is truly dead.

John still remained unmoved.

"I'm not apologising." Sherlock snapped, starting to feel defensive and hating it. "I told you, it was necessa-"

The fist came out of nowhere and pain erupted from his jaw, making his vision dance for a moment. The momentum was such that he staggered back and found himself on the floor, staring up at an expressionless John Watson.

Shocked, he touched a hand to his jaw and frowned as it threatened to darken his vision again.

Lestrade was gingerly approaching John, while Anderson grinned triumphantly.

Something in Sherlock dipped and bowed in defeat.

Then John scratched at his eyebrow and dropped his hand, offering it to Sherlock.

"You eaten?"

Sherlock stared at the hand, then up at John. "No."

John rolled his eyes, "Of course you haven't." he muttered as he hauled Sherlock up and then eyed him suspiciously. "Fancy Chinese? I'll pick something up"

Behind them, Lestrade was staring as if John had gone mad.

"Not from-"

"I remember." John sighed, "You'll need to put some ice on that. I have frozen peas-"

Sherlock pulled a face, "We do not have frozen peas."

"I have frozen peas." John corrected.

That would have to change immediately.

"Yes," John muttered catching his look, "God forbid the fridge and freezer be used for regular things like food."

"Boring."

"Yeah," John agreed suddenly. "Your fault."

Sherlock inclined his head, "That I will apologise for."

And, when John's mouth curled into a genuine smile, everything was fine.


End file.
